SIXTEEN
「the aftermath」
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

   "WHAT DO WE do? It's been over a week now."

   It had been a week since the incident. The incident no one dared to mention or ask questions about anywhere near Minho or Sylvia. Their reasoning for Minho was that he would either A) start yelling and lashing out, or B) glare at the culprit with such intensity that everyone was sure they would be obliterated by Minho's eyes alone. Minho had become grievously tense, resigned, and contemptuous. He was rarely seen, always caught up working on one thing or another. Hadn't made any jokes or laughed, which was overly concerning considering it was Minho. And if he was sarcastic, it was bitingly so and without any humor.

   Their reasoning for Sylvia was simple: she wouldn't answer. She probably wouldn't even look at them either, or notice they were there. She hadn't spoken since the day of the incident. She had become a shell of a person. She didn't speak, didn't argue, barely ate, barely slept.

   She ran the Maze in silence, worked in the Map Room in silence, ate in silence, relived the horrors in silence. Cole was just about the only Glader that Sylvia accepted to be near her. He was mostly unbothered by her silence and had already been used to it. Nick was the other person that she accepted to be near her, and occasionally Newt. They had stopped trying to get her to talk and had come to terms with the fact that they would just have to wait for her to eventually snap out of it.

   Minho and Sylvia both had developed bags under their eyes, like matching souvenirs from a nightmare of a reality. They had new scars to add to their already large collection. They had many things to prove their involvement in what happened, visible and invisible.

Neither of them talked to each other, but they could be caught sharing glances that said more than words could. Sylvia was sure they both had the same nightmares during the dark hours of the night, as she had spotted him wandering aimlessly around the Glade when she would retreat to the Deadheads, beneath a blanket of stars. Sometimes, they'd both end up in the same spot, on the worn down couch in the lounge or at a lonely table in Frypan's kitchen. The nightmares drove them towards each other's solitude.

   The nightmares being Quinn's murder. He had been buried next to Ronan in the Deadheads. The Gladers all assembled and took turns in helping bury him. Sylvia couldn't force herself to attend, and neither could Minho. The both of them sat on the old wooden bench next to the Homestead in silence as the ceremony took place. They didn't share looks or laughs or stories, just simply stared ahead at nothing, writhing in the same dreadful feeling. The Council had elected a boy named Zart as the new Keeper of the Track-hoes.

    As for his murderer, he had gotten what he deserved. Roger was held in the Slammer, along with Wyck, Diego, and Kaylus. Each of them had been interrogated. Sylvia and Minho had also been asked for the full story, but Minho had to give them everything. Wyck, Diego, and Kaylus had all said they didn't know Roger had been planning on murdering them, and that they just thought he was going to try to send a message that they were unhappy with the Council's ways. Nick still had them in the Slammer for their crimes. He didn't know what he was going to do with them yet.

Roger had been Banished. It was a clear decision, and no one protested when Nick announced it. All the Keepers and Gladers had gathered and watched as Roger was attached to the banishing pole and shoved in the Maze, left to die. A life for a life. Sylvia watched him go in with a detached look. She stared at him and stared at him, watching without expression, until he looked back at her. He glared at her until the doors shut.

   Now, the Glade was slowly starting to build itself back up from the event. The Track-hoes were still particularly sluggish, but that was expected. Most of the Keepers were somber, Quinn having been with them from the start. Mostly, people were just trying to forget.

   Sylvia sat despondently in the Med-jack room. A couple of people argued in front of her, about her, as if she wasn't there. Was she there? Was this real?

   "She could still be in shock." Clint said.

   "For over a week?" Oscar asked in an unserious tone.

   "I don't know! I don't have a PhD!" He retorted incredulously.

   "Stop arguing," Gally said, "You're gonna make her start screaming or something."

   At this, Sylvia looked up at him. The comment slightly amused her, and she almost thought about doing it just for the hell of it, but nothing on her face gave away any emotion she was feeling; a practice that had come in handy as of late.

   Oscar pointed out the simple reaction of her moving her eyeballs, "Hey! At least we know she can hear us."

   "Just because she looked at Gally doesn't mean she can hear us." Jeff rolled his eyes.

   "Why wouldn't she be able to hear us anyway?" Nick questioned the two Med-jacks.

   "I don't know. Just blunt force trauma to the head." Jeff bit back.

   Nick's expression creased at him. It was unlike the boy to act like this, "What's wrong?"

   Jeff sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, "Sorry man. This whole thing has just been stressin' me out."

   Nick placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, "I know. This rough patch will even out soon."

   Sylvia was so, so tired. She hadn't slept properly in ages and her body begged for a full eight hours without interruption. Everything had been different since the Griever attack, and more askew since Quinn's murder. Her ears rang and it was harder to hear the people before her. She closed her eyes and furrowed her brows. Recently, it had been hard to hear when people were speaking to her. Sometimes people would be behind her, trying to get her attention, and she wouldn't even hear them until they made themselves physically present in front of her. She didn't know why that was.

   Sunlight filtered through the window of the room, warming her back. She looked at the shadows that played on the ground, being cast by the Gladers standing before her. The shadows were lies, disoriented and elongated to appear different from their owner. Sylvia looked for her own shadow and could not find it.

   The others began leaving the room so she stood to leave as well. They pulled her out of her work in the Map Room after all, and she didn't have all the time in the world to solve the Maze. Nick had set himself on a quest to find Minho. He needed a way to get Sylvia out of this stupor.

   His feet carried him to the Map Room, then the Bloodhouse, then the Homestead, and finally, the Kitchens. He found the boy in question sitting grimly at one of the tables. He seemed to be doing nothing, just sitting there, staring out the window next to the table. He had no food or drink with him. Frypan glanced at the boy every couple of minutes in concern. Nick gave the Cook a questioning look and the dark skinned boy simply shrugged.

   Nick advanced toward the lone table and sat across from Minho. Minho's eyes did not defer from their place at the window but Minho knew Nick was there, his presence like a tranquilized tidal wave, if that was even possible. Nick let the silence ensue before speaking to the boy, "I need you to do something for me."

   At this, Minho turned his head to regard Nick.

   "I need you to get Sylvia to talk," Nick continued. Minho eyed the boy with an uncertain look. If Sylvia didn't want to speak, that wasn't his problem. "I don't care what it takes. Yell at her, or argue with her, or whatever. Nothing else has worked, and if anybody gets her riled up, it's you."

   "What's that supposed to mean?" Minho asked with knitted brows, referring to the last part of his sentence.

   Nick gave Minho a stern look, "Don't act like you don't know. She becomes the biggest asshole on the planet when she's around you. If you start something, she can't resist the urge to push back."

    Minho stared at Nick inquisitively. He didn't know the things that had happened between them since their last fight. Things that raised tension and gave different meanings to the hard glares. Things that made Minhon question things about himself and ask, why the hell did I do that? Things that made him think to himself, what am I trying to do here? He said to Nick, "So you want me to start a fight with her? Over what?"

   "Anything you can think of," Nick sounded hopeful that Minho would pull through on his request, "The Maze, the maps, tell her she's off her game today. I'm sure you can come up with something. Just...don't go too far."

   "And why should I do this?" He questioned, bouncing his leg beneath the table, "What's it to me if she doesn't want to talk? She'll come out of it eventually. She always does."

   Nick shook his head, "I just need you to try it. It's important."

   The two boys stared at each other. Nick, pleading with his eyes, knowing deep down he would get his way, as he always did. There was a convincing force that emanated from his words when he spoke that made everyone want to follow without question. Minho, trying to scratch away at the obvious barrier between his words and what they really meant. Why was it so important that Sylvia come out of this now? Minho had a glare that made people squirm beneath it. Nick was immune to it, as he was immune to Sylvia's. He had known them too long to be intimidated by them anymore.

   "Fine. But I get your bacon for a week."

   Minho stood to move on to this task of forcing Sylvia to speak. Before he could fully exit the kitchen, Nick stopped him. "Minho! Don't tell her I put you up to this."

   Minho raised a brow at the boy as if to say, you think I'd give her an excuse?

   MINHO SAUNTERED INTO the Map Room. Sylvia's back was to him. She was leaning over the center table, switching through papers endlessly, dragging her fingers along the estimated blueprint they'd sketched of the Maze. She seemed to not have heard him walk in, or she probably would've given him a look of some sort. A look of annoyance, anger, disinterest. Though, she seemed to have been drained of any emotion whatsoever this past week, which was a huge difference to the maybe one emotion she'd show once a week before this ever happened. Usually, the emotion was anger.

   Sylvia only just visibly startled when he'd walked past her. It was hard not to notice after what had happened in the Deadheads that night. She'd reacted the exact same way when Roger stormed up to her and pointed the machete in her face; not noticeable to the others, but noticeable to anyone who had looked close enough.

   Sylvia only crafted a glare towards Minho in response. It was the same hardened glare she'd give any other day, but it was missing the fire in her eyes and the snarl behind her lips. It was almost unsettling to see her so drawn back.

   "What the hell are you doing?" Minho asked, which lacked any real malice. He didn't have the energy to fight with her, but he told Nick he'd try.

   She said nothing, glancing at the maps sprawled out in front of her and then back to him. It was answer enough.

   "This whole thing you're doing," He gestured to the mess of a table, "Is useless. You're not getting anywhere."

   Sylvia furrowed her brows at him, wondering where the sudden brashness came from. They hadn't talked since the incident. Minho never tried to say a word to her. They mostly tried avoiding each other all together, the other's presence too much of a reminder of what had gone down. The only time either of them could stand to be near the other was at dusk, when the sun had taken any trace of light with it and left the horrors to fester in their minds. Why was he doing this now?

   "You pretend like it's helping but you know it's not," He went on. "You can't get them out of your head. Can't stop thinking about them."

   Sylvia's expression stayed set in stone. She didn't know where he was going with this.

   "You think it's your fault. Maybe it is." He shrugged. Something passed over her face and was gone as quick as it came. It edged Minho on, "You don't know what the other outcome could've been. Maybe you would've died. Maybe I would've died."

   She watched him pace back and forth at the other end of the table, very slowly each way, deliberately. His face didn't show anger. If someone saw them talking but couldn't hear the conversation, they might think it was normal, nothing reaching too deep.

   "But I've got you all figured out, sweetheart. I'm honestly shocked I didn't realize sooner." Minho played the role well, examining her reactions closely now, waiting for indications of anger to rise, "You push everyone away from you, thinking you'll make it easier on yourself." A muscle in Sylvia's jaw twitched, which told Minho he was getting close, "You do everything you can to stay as far away from everyone as possible. You pretend like you don't care. But I see right through you." Minho inched towards her with every word, his voice getting lower the closer he got. He was almost whispering now.

   Sylvia's hands tightened on the edge of the table. She felt her knees weaken as a wave of nausea rolled over her. She didn't know if it was from his words or the head trauma or something she did or didn't eat. Maybe it was Quinn's ghost watching her from the corner of the room. She felt as if the temperature in the room had increased significantly since Minho had started talking.

   Minho was only a few inches away from her now, "Hot-headed, impulsive Sylvia. Live alone, die alone."

   Sylvia turned away from the table swiftly, away from Minho. She stumbled out of the Map Room and fell onto her hands and knees in the soft grass of the Deadheads. She heaved as her stomach emptied its contents. Her throat and her eyes and her stomach burned.

   She thought she might puke up all of her internal organs and then choke on her heart as it lodged itself in her throat. She felt hot and dizzy and wasn't sure if she'd ever stand again. Her dead, dead fingers were decaying into the ground. They turned a horrible shade of burning, rotting black. Lichen growing up from her fingertips and absorbing her dead, decaying flesh.

   "Sylvia?" She heard a panicked voice that wasn't Minho's. The voice was so loud it hurt her ears. A hand gripped her shoulders and forced her to face their owner. It was Nick, but it was not Nick. It was Nick, but he was pale and cold and had those dead, dead eyes. His torso was sliced in two and blood stained his clothing a deep, deep red. His usual boyish smile was replaced with a terrifying, silent scream. Sylvia yelled and screamed, pushing this thing that was and wasn't Nick off of her. She choked on her own wails, unintelligibly yelling and muttering, "Please, no."

   She felt so incredibly hot. She couldn't see clearly. Her whole body shook as these terrible, terrible sounds escaped her. She smelled rot so intensely that she thought she might hurl again.

   Sylvia could not see.

   Sylvia could not hear.

   Sylvia could not speak.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

well, fun chapter!